


inside this everlasting haze (i'm my own salvation)

by moonddun



Category: Mamamoo
Genre: F/F, Late Night Conversations, Lowercase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 15:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonddun/pseuds/moonddun
Summary: "you're a stone set inside the deep crevices of earth, miss moon. truly stubborn."was she?"you're awful at being poetic, miss kim."orformer classical musician moon byulyi was damning her own fate—shattered dreams.somehow in the midst of it all there's kim yongsun, and things weren't so bad.





	inside this everlasting haze (i'm my own salvation)

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo :>

some people are like pop songs; oh so bright, oh so blinding, unknowingly happy, as vibrant as particles of light laying down the ground endlessly. some people are like jazz; moving unknowingly along tides with no warning, a slipping note falling through different hands and different timings. some people are like ballads; a blade through the ribs, a scar right across the core of the soul, then silence as mouths agape.

moon byulyi was like a distorted harmony, a misplaced note all alone in the dark, pitch black and hollow—no speck of light to be seen. its very existence shattered universal rules, unforeseen from clouded minds and glass. fragile, oh so fragile, the dying pitch of an opera singer whose throat bled out trying to save the world. how bafflingly useless was it? mere human with no power nor mind—_meaningless_. 

moon byulyi was dirty, ragged from head to toe with dirt and filth. dragged down to the bottomless pit of sin, stripped down from her dreams, laid down on hell's gates on her own two feet. she breathed the dragon's fire, sweat licking her bangs as if it swore an oath to be there, worn down mic on the tips of her fingers, pristine white baseball cap resting on her head. and yet on her tongue, sinning tasted so sweet, addicting, _irresistible_.

she lived for the crowd, the screams, the sensation. red lights colouring byulyi's pale skin like fresh blood trickling down a blade wound, she couldn't ask for anything more. it's one of a kind, elusive for byulyi only. she might've appreciated it more if the gold in her hands were real, if her sword wasn't double edged and cutting deep into her palms, if her heart wasn't screaming at her after every performance, telling her this is wrong, wrong, wrong.

byulyi was breathing black smoke, one that corrupts the air within her lungs with every take. so that's exactly the reason why, her hands gripped the old black mic so tightly her knuckles turn white, heartbeat oddly calm as the audience roared her name like silver—_glistening, silky, hard_—off their tongues.

"ready for today? the regulars can't wait for your new mixtape."

byulyi fixed the cap on her head, bangs half covering her eyes like curtains closing in after the last clap of the audience. she closed her eyes, gold and silver flickering behind her eyelids, percussion thrumming slowly in the space inside her head. the center spotlight was vacant, a sole circle under a pillar of light.

"ready as ever." byulyi smiled, a warm tone contrasting her appearance.

"good then, break a leg or whatever."

upon hearing those words, byulyi reached for her left arm at reflex. but it's pointless, how her skin felt the pressure under layers of clothing. _pointless_.

the stage, from this distance, gave off a misplaced familiar feeling. a sense that yelled that she shouldn't, at all costs, bestow any attachment towards it. the rays were blinding, spotlights reflected over the stage floorings. 

byulyi plunged in head-first, falling irrevocably—endlessly—into the ocean of tantalizing bittersweet dreams, one she couldn't even simply blink and daydream about. her heart thrummed against her chest, it shot jabs of pain relentlessly, making that small voice at the back of her head turn up. the words fall over her lips faster than how much her mind walked. hundreds of sweaty bodies, revved from adrenaline, shouted her name as if it was something holy. as every line passed, byulyi felt the hands of the devil sank her feet even deeper.

somehow, moon byulyi was just human. another one with heaven's garden locked up right in front of their very eyes, too far to reach, too near to ignore.

\----

it was a few seconds after daybreak, byulyi woke up to find herself tangled between soft, toned limbs. it's cold, somehow freezing even though a whole person's body heat was seeping through her skin like campfire in the middle of the woods. byulyi resisted the urge to cackle her teeth from the cold air.

"you're up."

a pair of doe eyes stared right at her. it felt melancholic, a weeping angel's melody in the form of caramel glazed orbs, piercing to the depths of byulyi's ugly, _ugly_ fears.

"yongsun-"

a lean finger was tentatively shutting her lips.

light brown eyes fluttered close—disappearing for a split second, a shimmer of shiny marble under the yellow bedside lamp, "you're doing it again, that thing. body on stage, mind on somewhere it doesn't belong. idiot."

byulyi can feel yongsun's hot breath on the tips of her lips, it smelled like cigarettes and yesterday's leftover chocolate. byulyi hated nicotine but yongsun makes do, it's a difficult bargain, she supposed. after a few ticks, she reached out her arm to play with yongsun's bleached orange hair, trying to cope a soft feel from the tangled locks. kim yongsun sure was breathtaking with the dumb carrot hair, vibrant orange somehow complimenting the milky skin.

"you're not answering me."

"too sleepy to talk."

a beat.

"liar."

yongsun kept quiet, making the small whispers of the air-conditioner filter through byulyi's eardrums like a soft, enthralling spring breeze. the silence was welcome, even if byulyi knew some questions hung on the air like the solar system decor back on her childhood bedroom. it sprung on her like sudden raindrops, the miniscule desire to spill over her feelings like a broken dam over innocent villages, to just tell yongsun the same fear she had for years, to tell her the flickering of gold and silver that haunted her like shackles-

but yongsun was not a lost wanderer, yongsun listened, she understood, she knew—_just knew_. yongsun would indulge all her stories like silk threads forming a clean sew, caress her left hand when everything got too suffocating-

so byulyi coped by interlacing her fingers with yongsun's, whatever words threatening to flow out swallowed hard back down her throat.

doe eyes wandering again, yongsun offered her best smile, "i don't wait, but this one gotta make do. you owe me one."

_it's a harmless tone._

byulyi had more time to catch her breath.

\----

"you're not supposed to do this, you know."

"then what? what am i supposed to?"

a beat.

"breathe."

"i can't, yong. the more i see that photograph hanging on my wall the more i feel pathetic," byulyi held a sigh that's choking up her throat, her eyes can't bear to meet with yongsun's, "but it's not something i wanted to throw away. i want to live with this, not bury it." slanted eyes kept wandering around, not wanting to catch anything—it all felt like a blur, "i can't leave the band behind, yongsun."

(the 24-hour convenience store at twelve pm was a bad idea. yongsun had that tired look, and byulyi's just a mess.)

byulyi remembered gold and silver, the precise yet relaxed wave of a conductor's hand, earth-shattering claps bouncing off concert hall's walls, particles of light from spotlights pulled down by gravity, and the way metal valves felt cold, sweaty against her hands. there's no such thing as a proper goodbye, it's just a cycle, a damned wheel stuck at certain years of byulyi's life. byulyi could fall back into the disjointed rhythm of longing, lingering sentiments of brass, notes echoing in her hollow bones.

"you're a stone set inside the deep crevices of earth, miss moon. truly stubborn."

_was she?_

"you're awful at being poetic, miss kim."

\---

_("for a former classical orchestra player turned underground rapper you're pretty enthusiastic, i'm charmed."_

_it's the convenience store again—but it's summer 2017, peak of freezing summer nights dancing through scales like dandelions swayed by the wind. another twelve pm, soft serve vanilla ice cream and bubblegum popsicle._

_byulyi stopped licking her vanilla ice cream midway, staring at the older woman in front of her like she just turned the whole world into glimmering silver with a flick. a pause, then, "i suppose your older sister told you? on whatever this is?"_

_"her favourite trombone player quit right before nationals due to... circumstances. i believe i'm intrigued." pair of wide, caramel eyes peered at byulyi like she was some kind of endangered animal._

_yongsun's words stung like a guillotine down byulyi's neck—quick, anticipated, but still hurts nonetheless._

_"miss kim, you're utterly horrible."_

_yongsun simply bit into her popsicle, drops of blue dripping over her chin like a spell meant to capture byulyi—somehow able to suck all of byulyi's attention like a black hole, "i like your mixtapes, honestly."_

_an eyebrow raised, byulyi looked away with cheeks a little flushed, "i thought classical music prodigies don't listen to underground rappers who's barely even scratching the basement's surface-"_

_another beat, byulyi's words cut off._

_"i'm sorry about your left hand, does it hurt not being able to play forever?"_

_yongsun's a dizzy spell, a wave flowing left and right—a crash that deemed itself unlogical, her words were vines trapping itself inside byulyi, unwavering with a drop of innocence—rude and simply thoughtless. but byulyi can't bring it in herself to be mad, it's jarring. for a woman she just met thirteen hours ago, yongsun sure was different._

_"i'm... i'm happy i'm no longer a burden for the band."_

_yongsun's seemingly large and curious eyes squinted to the point it unnerved byulyi, a drop of sweat forming on her head._

_"liar."_

_the leftover wooden stick of yongsun's popsicle laid unmoving across the metal table as byulyi immersed herself in her ice cream again._

_no questions were answered, it's calming.)_

\---

(maybe byulyi will never get back to playing trombone, but yongsun was enough. she'll never get over it, but her rap verses were distracting enough. there's no closure, there's no build-up that will finally make her free, just an endless cycle of condemning her fate. 

moon byulyi's still thankful.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> binge watched hibike euphonium because i missed fluffy brown locks and violet-eyed trumpet players. blame me for this sudden short fic. sorry for the lowercase again! 
> 
> feel free to leave your thoughts below!


End file.
